


Gods of Fear

by stuckoncloud9



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Fix-It, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, also the original comic is kind of messed up, speaking of, the tags make this sound rough but i promise it's not any more messed up than the original comic, to the extent that bruce is capable of providing comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:27:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckoncloud9/pseuds/stuckoncloud9
Summary: Scarecrow's new ally is not happy with him when he accidentally clues Batman into their plan. There's a silver lining, though: Batman's also there to save him from the consequences.(Fix-It Fic for the "Torment" arc of Superman/Batman Vol. 1)
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Panic and Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be familiar with issues 40-42 of Superman/Batman as the comic where Batman leaves Scarecrow in a torture chamber on Apokolips and then gets non-conned by Orion's wife. You might not. I hope you're not, actually, because they're terrible comics and no one should read them. Unfortunately I DID read them yesterday, so this fic is my brain's inevitable reaction to doing that.

Jonathan had made a mistake. He could acknowledge that. He’d done nothing BUT acknowledge that for the last twelve hours, given that there wasn’t really anything else he could do with his arms and legs bound like this.

He strained half-heartedly against his restraints. It was times like this he wished he had Edward’s flair for escape artistry — or, better yet, the Bat’s. His escapes generally involved hidden phials of fear toxin in his clothing (or his cell, or his mouth, or really anywhere else he thought he thought Arkham security wouldn’t be able to find them). He had toxin hidden on his person now, of course, not that it was doing anything for him at the moment. He was sure he was hypothetically capable of designing a formula that would work on his captors, given time and test subjects. Unfortunately, at the moment he had neither. And he had learned the hard way that his current toxin didn’t work on gods. 

Well. Sufficiently advanced interdimensional beings, anyway. Jonathan doubted DeSaad’s claim to divinity, given that the mighty “God of Torture” had been practically biting his nails over the prospect of Jonathan accidentally leading Batman to Apokolips. Or maybe fear of the Bat was just a universal constant, New God or no. 

In retrospect, all of the talk of godhood should probably have been a sign to Jonathan not to get involved in DeSaad’s plot against Superman. But there was something about the man that had clouded Jonathan’s head. Technically there was nothing in DeSaad’s plan that had aligned with the Scarecrow’s usual intentions — the New God’s device had made Superman devoid of emotions, not afraid, and if DeSaad succeeded in catching up with the Bat, Jonathan’s nemesis would meet the same fearless fate as well. 

And yet he’d felt driven to collaborate with Darkseid’s lieutenants. On reflection, the amount of secrets he’d given away to DeSaad was horrifying. Not that the man had ever seemed terribly impressed by Jonathan’s formula. At the time his attention had felt like a reward in and of itself; it made Jonathan feel powerful, as capable of creating fear and control as DeSaad himself.

That illusion had definitely faded now. 

His back still ached from where DeSaad had thrown him into the wall, turning on his pawn at the first sign of disappointment. Or maybe he had been planning on betraying Jonathan anyway, as soon as Scarecrow’s role in his plan was over. Either way, it would have been less insulting if the Master Tortuer of Apokolips had at least attended to Jonathan’s punishment himself. Not that it would have been any less painful — more, probably — but it _would_ have been less demeaning than his current fate. 

Clot, DeSaad had called the goblin creature he’d given Jonathan to. All Jonathan had noticed of it during his initial meetings with DeSaad was its pitch black eyes, watching with curiosity as its master discussed his plan with his newest “prodigy.” Now that Jonathan had been gifted to the little monster as a “chew toy,” however, its most notable feature was most definitely its rows and rows of knife sharp teeth. 

There was something wrong with those teeth. The creature had spent the night gnawing on Jonathan’s skin, wandering in and out of the chamber at its pleasure, stripping off more and more of his clothes until every inch of his body was covered in bites. The rings of tooth marks from its lamprey-like mouth had pierced deep, though not to tear at the flesh. The effect was like thousands of needles plunged into his skin. The angry red of the flesh surrounding each wound suggested that something had, in fact, been injected. 

Jonathan couldn’t stop the whimpering that emerged from his throat as his wounds burned, which was almost more humiliating than his lack of clothes. Normally only high doses of his own toxin could reduce him to this kind of cringing submission, but whatever venom was contained in his torturer’s bite was coursing through his veins with the kind of agony Jonathan associated with fire brands and sulfuric acid. 

The sound of footsteps in the corridor behind him made Jonathan’s heart pound with renewed fear. It was the kind of terror that he probably would have enjoyed back in Gotham, especially if it was the Bat that had him restrained. But the anxiety that flooded his system as his tormenter returned just made him feel sick. He’d already vomited up the meager contents of his stomach about five “visits” ago, but he’d been unable to tell if it was a reaction to his emotional state or the poison in his system. Or both.

“You’ll be relieved to hear that your idiocy hasn’t cost me _too_ terribly.”

Jonathan snapped to attention at the sound of DeSaad’s voice. 

“Your Dark Knight has been collected by my Lord’s rebellious daughter-in-law,” DeSaad said, wandering casually into Jonathan’s field of view. “I was troubled at first, but their attempt against Darkseid failed miserably. Now they’re trapped on the castle grounds. Our forces will find them momentarily.”

As someone with years of experience in having Batman “trapped,” Jonathan sincerely doubted it. But that wasn’t a sentiment he was about to try and express to his captor.

“DeSaad, please...” Jonathan whimpered, his voice hoarse.

The New God glanced down at his twitching form, and the delight in his eyes was more terrifying than the prospect of another round with his assistant.

“Poor Jon,” DeSaad said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. He dug a long nail into one of the wounds in Jonathan’s shoulder, causing the man to shriek in pain beneath him. “All you had to be was competent. Or, saving that, loyal. But you were neither. Clot!”

There was skittering from the hallway behind Jonathan as DeSaad’s servant hurried to its master’s side. 

“Take this,” DeSaad said, withdrawing a hand to extend a dark vial in Clot’s direction. “Apply it.”

“What is that?” Jonathan panted, craning his head to watch as the creature took the vial and uncapped it. “What are... what are you doing to do?”

“It’s just an ointment, Scarecrow, no need to be so _frightened,”_ DeSaad said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. “It’s to help you heal faster. The bites are fun, but what Clot really savors is the scabbing that follows. An adequate punishment, don’t you think? You fail me, so you end up as treats in Clot’s snack jars.”

Revulsion washed over Jonathan as the creature crept closer, pouring a sickly pink liquid from the vial into its hand.

“Have fun, Jon,” DeSaad said, waving back at him as he left the room. “The ointment might sting a little.”

Clot grinned at Jonathan as the sound of his master’s footsteps disappeared into the distance.

“S-Stay away from me,” Jonathan warned.

The creature grinned. “Very intimidating.” 

“I should hope so.”

The creature screeched in terror as Batman grabbed it by the throat, tossing it into the wall. It fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. 

“ _Yes!”_ Jonathan shouted. “Step on him! Kill the little cretin! _Look_ what he did to me!”

He balked as Batman’s fist closed around his neck.

“You’ve got your problems, I’ve got mine,” the Bat said. “Where’s Superman?”

The lack of air meant that Jonathan wouldn’t have been able to tell him even if he did know, which was concerning. Usually when Batman terrorized his interrogation subjects, he was careful not to brutalize them in ways that would prevent a reply. 

It was difficult to read Batman through the cowl, but over the years Jonathan had gotten good at discerning whether his enemy was under the influence or not. And Batman was definitely under _some_ influence. He wasn’t moving correctly; his gestures were jerky and disjointed, not the sleek grace that Jonathan associated with the Bat. And he was breathing far too hard. 

Normally Jonathan would be pleased to see Batman out of sorts, but whatever the man was feeling, it clearly wasn’t fear. He also wasn’t especially eager to be choked to death while manacled and covered in bite marks. 

Jonathan crunched down on one of his lower molars, hard. Blood dripped from his mouth as it cracked open, uprooting from his gums.

Then he spit it in Batman’s face.

The Bat reeled backwards, but it was too late. A cloud of fear toxin had already sprayed out of the broken false tooth. At this range Jonathan had inhaled it as well, though he couldn’t say he minded. The spine chilling rush of his own formula was a welcome reprieve from the nausea inflicted by DeSaad and his toadie. 

“Don’t go in,” Batman muttered, staggering backwards. “It’s not safe...”

His human features melted away as the toxin worked its way through Jonathan’s brain, replacing Batman with the Demon that had haunted his dreams since their first meeting. The dosage wasn’t high enough to completely overwhelm his senses, since this particular trick had been designed for close-range usage, and Jonathan had no intention of accidentally giving himself brain damage. But the adrenaline was real, and watching the dark winged monster in front of him thrash violently made the breath catch in his bruised throat.

Eventually the Demon dropped to the floor, crouching and holding its horned head in its hands. It rose back up slowly, staring at Jonathan with fire in its sickly pale eyes.

“Scarecrow,” it said.

“Batman,” Jonathan replied. He might have sounded slightly breathless. He’d just been choked, after all.

“You...” the Demon trailed off, glancing down at its claws. “Give me a second.”

It reached down to its waist, where a utility belt blinked back into existence. It lifted a talon in Jonathan’s direction, causing him to jerk away. His fear didn’t impede the Bat at all; it ignored his struggles to get away, carefully doing _something_ to one of his manacles. Eventually it unlocked, and Jonathan’s right arm sprung free from its prison. The Demon grabbed his hand on reflex as he swung it down for an attack. 

The Bat gave him a judgemental look that was decidedly more human than demonic, one-handedly repeating the process with the manacle over Jonathan’s other arm. 

“I _will_ put you back in,” it said as Jonathan’s left arm came free. 

Jonathan got the picture. He grabbed the open shackle for balance, and did the same with his right hand when the Bat released it. He breathed out as the Bat leaned down to free his legs, flexing the muscles he hadn’t been able to move since the day before. 

His last manacle opened without warning, and Jonathan stumbled forward. He half expected the Bat to let him drop, after the choking, but instead he found himself stabilized by strong arms.

“Where’s Superman?” the Bat repeated. When Jonathan looked up, the face before him was disappointingly human.

“Really?” Jonathan asked, unimpressed. “That’s still the first thing on your mind? You’re such a broken record.”

Batman’s hands tightened around his collarbone.

“I don’t know!” Jonathan said quickly. “I haven’t seen him since I brought him here.”

“Hm,” Batman said. He let go of Jonathan, who had successfully regained his footing, walking over to examine Clot where it was crumpled on the ground near the wall. 

“Do you know where they put your costume?” The Bat asked over his shoulder, focused on searching the creature. 

His costume. Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Jonathan flushed as red as his bite marks as he remembered his state of undress. The terrifying rush of his toxin cleansed the mind of lesser emotions like humiliation or shame. But now the fear was just a buzz in the back of his head, and those feelings had returned in full force. 

Batman turned to look at him. It was impossible to tell where his gaze was directed through the cowl, but Jonathan willed himself to believe that the man’s eyes had not dropped below his neckline. He’d never enjoyed other people looking at his body, but the current situation made the prospect more mortifying than ever. He was willing to bet that the ugly red marks did nothing to improve what was already unpleasant to look at.

He realized that Batman had turned due to his lack of response. “No,” he answered, managing to resist the futile urge to cover himself. At this point, either the Bat wasn’t looking or he’d already seen everything Jonathan wanted to hide. 

Batman poked at the fabric covering Clot’s small body. “I’d strip him, but I think his robes would be a little short on you.”

Jonathan stared at him. Was the Bat... joking? 

“Probably,” Jonathan said, in case he’d been being serious.

His enemy rose to his feet, hands going to his shoulders as he walked back to Jonathan’s side. “Here,” he said, and when his fingers left the nape of his neck his cape went with them. Jonathan blinked as the dark flowing fabric was proffered in his direction.

He took it, warily, watching Batman carefully in case it was a trick. When the man made no move against him, he quickly wrapped the cape around himself, pulling it taught until the only part of his body visible was his head.

Batman turned away, satisfied. Jonathan stood in place, still processing what had just happened. The inside of the cape was softer than he'd been expecting, a smooth material that soothed more than irritated the soreness of his skin. It was warm, too; Jonathan hadn’t realized how cold he was, distracted by the burning pain of his wounds, until becoming enveloped in the thermal fabric.

The cape had been designed with this purpose in mind, he realized. Though presumably it was intended for the victims of criminals, and not criminals themselves. 

“Well?” 

He focused his attention back on Batman, who was standing near the far wall behind the platform on which Jonathan had been shackled. The Bat was staring expectantly at him from underneath an air vent. Its metal grating had been bent and twisted away; this was probably how Batman had entered the room unnoticed.

Batman stared at Jonathan expectantly. Realizing what the Bat wanted — and eager to be out of this room — Jonathan shuffled over to the vent, as quickly as the awkward draping of the cape would allow. 

He jumped up to grab at the ledge of the vent, pointedly ignoring the hand Batman had offered to assist with the movement. He might not be an escape artist, but he was more than adequate as an acrobat. It was awkward to pull himself up while still holding the cape around himself, but thankfully he didn’t weigh enough to have difficulty pulling himself up one handed. 

Once he was inside the vent, he heard Batman following him up, and started to crawl forward as quickly as possible. He had no idea which direction led to safety and which led to a room full of Parademons, but Batman was nothing if not capable of bossing people around when he thought they’d taken a wrong turn. 

“Left,” the Bat ordered, not even giving Jonathan the opportunity to make a mistake. Jonathan obliged him, not particularly eager to stumble into that room full of Parademons.

They continued like that for a while, Batman giving one-word directions and Jonathan leading the way. A few times they dropped down out of the vents, their exit route already bent open by the Bat on his path to the torture chamber. Batman would lead him to a new entrance in the empty room, or in the hallway outside, and they would continue their crawl forward as quickly and quietly as possible. Jonathan’s growing suspicion that they’d been traveling deeper into the complex instead of escaping was confirmed when they finally emerged into a subterranean chamber.

“Bekka?” Batman called out. It was subtle, but his voice was tinged with just the slightest hint of fear. Was it a side effect of the toxin, or was he afraid of whoever he was hoping to find down here?

There was no response. Jonathan was about to make a comment about Batman’s allies abandoning him — something appropriately cutting for the situation — when a shimmering figure of blue light sprung into existence in front of them. 

The light faded, and when it was gone Jonathan found himself looking at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And that was saying something, because he was regularly imprisoned in the same mental asylum as Pamela Lillian Isley. This woman had red hair too, though it was shorter, better suited for hand to hand combat than Pamela’s long mane. Her dress was pure white, though it was adorned with a warm, golden metal that formed bracers on her arms and armored her chest and stomach. It was most prominent in her crown, a simplistic but imposing piece of jewelry set with a single stone of amber. Its orange surface burned bright in the low light of the chamber. Jonathan could see himself and the Bat reflected within its depths, but when the light shifted or she moved her head, he thought he could see other shapes trapped within its depths. 

“My adored,” she said, more of a sigh than a statement, holding out a hand to Batman.

A wave of attraction and arousal hit Jonathan like a truck. He staggered, for a moment barely able to stay standing when struck by the full force of the feeling. Now the comparison to Poison Ivy seemed especially relevant. Jonathan wasn’t a stranger to lust, but he only felt it like _this_ when under the effect of Ivy’s pheromones. The scientist in him felt the urge to find a way to stick the two women in a room together and watch what happened. The rest of him was suddenly so desperate for human touch that he wanted to scream. 

In combination with the rush of his toxin from earlier, it was impossible to prevent his body’s natural reaction to the stimuli. He had just enough sense left in him to surreptitiously adjust the cape, making it so that its fabric draped a further and more concealing distance away from the lower regions of his torso. 

Not that it mattered, since neither of the other two people in the room seemed aware of the fact that he existed. While he glanced back and forth between them, they stared at each other, transfixed. Like Jonathan wasn’t even present. The sting of that, along with the distracting buzz of fear at the back of his toxin laden mind, sufficiently broke the mood. He frowned, turning to face Batman directly.

“Adored?” he asked, disbelieving. “I feel like Ms. Kyle wouldn’t be happy to hear that.”

The Bat blinked at him, then shook his head like he was clearing something away. The woman turned to glare at Jonathan as he did so. Her stare was terrifying, which didn’t help with his situation down below. Her eyes were the same burning gold as the amber in her crown, and much like the stone, they gave the impression that murky shapes were entrapped within. Seeing himself reflected inside their orange depths made Jonathan feel frozen in place.

“Bekka,” Batman said again, taking a step away from the woman in front of him. It might have been meant to be subtle, but at such close quarters, in his current state of distraction, the motion was anything but. “I— _we_ need to focus. I didn’t find Superman. He’s still out there.”

“So I see,” she said, still staring at Jonathan. “But you found... something to drag back in his place.”

Batman flinched. Even though Jonathan got to see him do that more than most, it was still bizarre to witness. He realized with a start that the Bat absolutely would not have taken him to Bekka's safe haven if his fear toxin hadn’t disrupted her effect on him.

“This is the Scarecrow,” Batman said, gesturing to Jonathan. “I mentioned him before. He was a part of the plot to capture Superman, he can help us break DeSaad’s control over Kal.”

Jonathan wanted to object to the inane suggestion that he would be helpful on purpose, but the woman seemed liable to try and put him out of his misery if he didn’t have a use to her, and if she set her mind on it he wasn’t sure Batman could stop her. Or if Batman would even _want_ to stop her, which was an unsettling thought.

“Hmm,” she said, which was about all the approval Jonathan was probably going to get from her. She turned, gesturing towards a pile of equipment and parts at the center of the chamber. “I’ve been visiting DeSaad’s laboratories, but I wasn’t sure what he used to conquer the mind of your Champion. Or what you could use to reverse it.”

Batman walked over to the pile, giving Bekka a cautiously wide berth as he did so. “Dr. Crane,” he said, indicating for Jonathan to join him. He obliged the Bat, eager for an excuse to be further away from the woman who was still staring at him like he was a rotting rodent a pet had dropped at her door. 

“It wasn’t chemical,” he said before Batman could ask. “I would advise returning to Earth and retrieving one of the more technologically advanced members of your Justice League. Or one of the magic ones. Either would probably apply.” 

_And bring me back to Arkham,_ was the unspoken addition. The asylum wasn’t Jonathan’s favorite place in the world, but he far preferred it to Apokolips. Unfortunately, the look Batman gave him didn’t seem particularly impressed with his suggestion.

“How did it work?” the Bat asked. His focus was on the machinery in the pile, not on Jonathan, which normally would have been inadvisable stupidity. But in this situation, the Bat was his only way out. Attacking him wouldn’t be productive, even if Batman’s cuttingly casual disregard for the danger he posed made doing so nigh irresistible.

He supposed at the very least, it was flattering that Batman assumed he’d understood what DeSaad had done, despite how far it was from his actual area of expertise. It had taken a great deal of effort to follow as it was happening, especially since DeSaad was more likely to respond to any questions with patronizing mockery than actual answers. Another retrospectively obvious sign that this appointment was never going to end well for him. At this point Jonathan was starting to wonder if his eagerness to work with DeSaad has been as supernaturally instilled as his current desire to...

He glanced back at Bekka. She was glaring at him expectantly. Right.

“It shut down his nervous system,” Jonathan said. “His mind has been cut off from the rest of his body. Once the disconnect was there, DeSaad put some... magical crystalline object through his forehead. Now he controls Superman’s body.” 

Batman nodded, processing. “So whatever he did was dependent on Kal’s nervous system being muted,” he reasoned. “If something shocked Superman’s mind and body into reconnecting...”

“Then hypothetically, DeSaad’s control would be pushed out,” Jonathan concluded. “Hypothetically. I didn’t major in 'magical crystalline objects.'”

“I don’t know what a ‘major’ is, but I am familiar with the artifact your Scarecrow described,” Bekka said. Batman tensed up as she drew closer. “Your assessment is accurate, if exceedingly nontechnical. A shock to the mortal’s system should break the Torturer’s spell. You’re more familiar with his species than DeSaad. Do you know any weak points that he might not have known to prepare for?”

The Bat narrowed his eyes, reaching down to dig through the pile. “I already tried kryptonite,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. “I’m guessing DeSaad cast some kind of protection spell.” 

Had Batman made the intentional choice to bring his friend’s greatest weakness on a mission to rescue him, or did he just carry kryptonite on his person at all times? It was impossible to tell. The Bat was as paranoid as he was pessimistic. 

He lifted a delicate looking piece of machinery from the pile. The receiver indicated that it might be some kind of radio. “This might work to...” Batman trailed off, glancing at Jonathan. “This might work.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes. It was obvious enough that the Bat was planning on creating a noise with a high enough frequency to pain Superman’s inhuman senses. More than one Gotham villain had tried to use Superman as a weapon against Batman. Even if Jonathan _wasn’t_ one of them, he probably would have heard of the Bat’s various anti-Kryptonian tricks through the Arkham grapevine. 

“I assume you don’t need me to construct your dog whistle?” Jonathan asked. 

Batman glared at him for a moment, then sighed. “No,” he said. “This should work as is. I’m going to find a way to the roof. Get a better range.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Bekka volunteered. She reached over to the Bat, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“You... no, you...” Batman stared at her hand like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “You should watch the perimeter.”

“What perimeter?” she asked, frowning.

“The... perimeter,” Batman said. “For Superman. To make sure he doesn’t notice me.”

“I can guarantee he won’t notice you,” Bekka said, nodding in agreement. “Hold me close, and we can phase out together.”

“No!” Batman said, backing away from her. “We can’t... we shouldn’t be...” he straightened, pulling himself up to his full height. “If I’m phased with you, then he wouldn’t be able to hear the frequency. It would be better if you were watching out for him alone. Apart from me.”

His logic wasn’t completely sound, but it was logic. And Bekka had clearly gotten the underlying message.

“Fine,” she said, stepping away. She disappeared as quickly as she’d sprung into existence in the first place, flashing out of view in a haze of blue light. 

Jonathan waited a few moments. It was impossible to tell if she’d left the room or if she was standing there watching them, invisible. Eventually he got tired of waiting.

“She wanted to have sex with you,” he observed.

Batman chose not to honor his statement with a response. He pushed Jonathan in the direction of the wall, which unfortunately reversed what little control over his body Jonathan had regained since the woman’s aura had begun to dissipate. 

“Did you want to have sex with her?” he asked, digging in his feet to stop his motion backwards before his back could hit the wall.

“No,” Batman said, reaching into his utility belt.

“But she was going to have sex with you anyway,” Jonathan observed. 

“She’s a god,” Batman said, pulling a pair of handcuffs out of a compartment and snapping one of the manacles shut around one of the long metal pipes running up the wall. “They don’t understand why mortals wouldn’t want what they want.”

“How Greek of her,” Jonathan said. “Did you know that there’s a god of fear in classical mythology? Two, actually. Phobos and Deimos. Panic and dread.”

“Yes,” Batman said, because of course he did. It was a rhetorical question. Jonathan hadn’t actually expected the Bat not to know. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

“Just trying to help you process,” Jonathan said. “This seems like an experience that you would internalize in a way that’s both unhealthy and unproductive.”

“If I want therapy, I’ll find a psychiatrist who hasn’t had his license revoked for torturing his patients,” Batman said. “Arm.”

He extended a hand expectantly. Jonathan huffed as he disentangled an arm from the cape, though internally he was glad that Batman hadn’t just tossed the fabric aside to grab one of his arms by force.

“As if you would willingly tell a therapist about any of this,” Jonathan said, watching as Batman locked his hand into the other side of the handcuffs.

“Would you?” the Bat asked, which wasn’t the response Jonathan was expecting.

“An adjusted version,” he replied. “I’m going to have to, if I don’t want to have to deal with their version of where all these marks came from.”

He hadn’t decided what he was going to tell the Arkham doctors yet. Preferably something less humiliating than the truth, though there weren’t a lot of dignified ways to acquire poisoned bites covering every inch of one’s body. He was not looking forward to the invasive testing that was doubtlessly waiting for him in the asylum’s infirmary. 

The look Batman gave him was almost pitying, which was worse than if it had been cruel.

“Don’t you have a Kryptonian to save?” Jonathan asked, scowling as he broke eye contact. He sank down to the floor, which was mercifully allowed by the length of the pipe that he’d been fastened to. 

Batman stared down at him for a moment, then turned to leave. “I’ll be back,” he said as he walked away.

Jonathan closed his eyes as the Bat’s already light footsteps faded into the distance. He hadn’t slept in over 42 hours, and the journey through the vents had exhausted his already meager supply of energy. Even the burning pain in his wounds wasn’t enough to keep him alert, as acclimated to the ache as he’d become over the course of the night. 

“You want to have sex with him.”

Jonathan hit his head against the wall as he woke up, eyes snapping open at the combination of shock and pain. 

Bekka was kneeling in front of him, staring down at him with an unreadable expression. Her presence wasn’t having the same effect on him as it had before, which implied that it was something she could turn on and off. Jonathan decided to be relieved rather than offended that she wasn’t bothering to use it now. 

“What?” he said intelligently, rubbing the back of his head. “Ow.”

“You want to have sex with him,” Bekka repeated. 

Jonathan glared at her. It didn’t seem to have any effect. 

“I think you have me confused with Catwoman,” he said stiffly, turning away from her. “Or Joker.”

“I’m the God of Love,” she said, and something in her declaration demanded Jonathan turn back to face her. He did, not entirely willingly. She tilted her head. “Your feelings for him are confusing. But they’re definitely sexual.”

“I think you may be misinterpreting my reaction to your magical Rohypnol aura from earlier,” Jonathan said, sitting up straighter beneath the cape. “Very morally questionable, by the way. Aren’t you supposed to be one of the good sufficiently advanced aliens?”

“My call has the strongest effect on those who have denied themselves love,” Bekka said, either ignoring or misunderstanding his accusations. “Batman told me about his Scarecrow when he got here. I didn’t think it would work on you.”

Jonathan laughed before he could stop himself. He might have been slightly delirious. The combination of pain and lack of sleep wasn’t doing him any favors. “Because I already seemed so fulfilled?”

“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose with distaste. “Because my power can’t touch those with no capacity for love.”

“I think you might be confused on the psychological difference between love and attraction,” Jonathan said, frowning. “Among several other things.”

Bekka smiled, though she might have just been baring her teeth. “So you admit that you’re attracted to Batman.” 

“I’m not admitting anything,” Jonathan snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the perimeter?” 

“Batman already woke up Superman,” Bekka said. “You slept through it. They’re destroying DeSaad’s laboratories. I assume they’ll come back for you when they’re done.”

Her tone suggested that she thought doing so would be a mistake, but the sting of the implied insult was nothing compared to Jonathan’s joy at the news of DeSaad’s current misfortune. He hoped Clot was crushed under the wreckage. 

“My adored husband has joined the assault,” she said, and her amber eyes gleamed with barely concealed pleasure. “The blow to my father-in-law’s forces will be glorious.”

“Your _husband?”_ Jonathan repeated. He suddenly recalled DeSaad’s mention that Darkseid’s daughter-in-law had ‘collected’ Batman. How incredibly disturbing. Not just whatever the state of this woman’s interpersonal relationships was, but the fact that Jonathan had been dragged into her ridiculous family drama. 

“My husband,” she said again. “Batman doesn’t want to have sex with _you,_ you know. He thinks you’re revolting.” 

It was completely illogical how much that stung, given that it was an obvious statement of fact which Jonathan couldn’t care less about either way. 

“I wasn’t under the impression he was blind as a bat,” Jonathan said coldly, his voice impressively unmoved. “Just that he was crazed enough to dress as one.”

Bekka frowned. “You attribute too much of the soul to the eyes,” she said. “And _I_ think that his armor is dashing. It strikes fear into the hearts of his enemies.”

“Well,” Jonathan said. “Yes. It does do that.”

The woman rose to her feet, apparently satisfied. “I am going to skewer some Parademons before my adored husband slaughters them all,” she decided. “This will be the last time we see each other. Farewell, mortal.”

“Well, I’m sorry to see you go,” Jonathan lied. “If you see DeSaad, don’t forget to skewer him through the crotch.”

Bekka let out a surprised laugh. “I will,” she said, sounding like she enjoyed the prospect even more than Jonathan did. She lifted a hand, and with a flash of blue light a truly wicked looking sword appeared in her grip. It was longer than Jonathan was, although not quite taller than her. His breath caught in his throat as she pointed it at his head.

“You are a revolting creature, mortal,” she said, sounding almost impressed. “But you have the blessing of Bekka. I wish you whatever luck in love your hideous soul will allow.”

She phased out of existence before Jonathan could reply. That was probably for the best, because he had no idea what to say to that. He wrapped Batman’s cape closer around himself. It was even warmer now than when he’d first put it on, presumably due to his body heat that it was trapping within its folds. 

The Bat’s cape was a prize sought by many of his rogues, though unfortunately it was as difficult to retain as it was to remove from his person. Batman didn’t like sharing his toys, especially with his enemies. He was less likely to go after scraps or damaged pieces, but the material was notoriously difficult to damage, and a fragment wasn’t the same thing anyway. 

Isley had possessed one for a while, given to her by the man himself when he was under the effect of her pheromones. Unfortunately it had contained a tracker somewhere on its material, and Ivy’s prize eventually led the Bat to her hidden greenhouse. Tetch had successfully acquired a cowl once, a piece of an older costume that had been given to him by a Robin in exchange for information. It had disappeared during one of the Hatter's stays in Arkham, however, and Jonathan didn’t envy the fate of the henchman who’d stolen it when Tetch finally caught up with him. 

To Jonathan’s knowledge, the only rogues who actually had a full cape in their collections were Joker and the Cat, both of whom had the skill to steal it and the knowledge to disarm any hidden tricks. Jonathan himself had certainly never possessed one, not for any longer than one of his sessions with the Bat. He’d never been much for keepsakes, and privately he’d always held a certain derision for the pointless sentimentality of his peers. 

Sitting there with the fearsome silhouette of his enemy draped over his shoulders, however, Jonathan thought he might be able to see the appeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like Bekka quite a lot in other comics she's in, but the power set established for her in these issues is literally terrifying. The narrative treats them as super sexy, of course, but I read your comic, Alan Burnett! I saw how many times Bruce said "no." I also noticed that he never said yes! But please, go on about how hot their sex was while they were all wrapped up in Bruce's cape. It will however motivate me to give Jonathan Bruce's cape out of pettiness, because I'm also petty that Bruce left him to be continuously tortured. It's out of character, Alan!!!


	2. Epilogue

Jonathan woke up in the dark, which he’d been expecting. He did not wake up in the cold, which was more of a surprise. Arkham cells were unlit unless someone on the outside wanted to see in, but the chill of the maximum security ward was legendary. An unfortunate side effect of Victor’s imprisonment in the wing. He’d heard the rest of the asylum ran rather warm, a result of the heat exuded by the same mechanisms that created a subzero environment for Freeze. 

As he sat up, he realized he was still wearing Batman’s cape, which seemed even more unusual. Even if the Bat had been generous enough to drop him off wrapped in such an essential part of his ensemble, the guards would have stripped it from him as soon as Jonathan crossed the threshold. 

It was the sound of screeching bats above him that sealed the deal. This was definitely not Arkham. He opened his eyes to find himself in some kind of cavern, though much of its structure was decidedly inorganic. It seemed vaguely familiar, though he didn’t think he had ever been here in a state as coherent as this. What was much more familiar was the man staring down at him from where he stood next to the table where he’d been laying.

“Were you watching me sleep?” Jonathan asked, more curious than disturbed.

“You weren’t sleeping,” Batman said. “I drugged you.”

“Hmm,” Jonathan said, stretching his limbs beneath the folds of the cape. “The difference seems negligible, but whatever makes you more comfortable. I’d hate to be rude, as a guest in your home.”

Because that’s where he was, wasn’t he? The Bat’s literal cave. He shivered in a way that didn’t entirely make sense, given the warmth of the material wrapped around him.

“Get up,” Batman ordered.

He got up. Normally Jonathan would protest, or try to otherwise gain the upperhand, but he was curious enough that he wanted to see how this would play out. He was also still slightly delirious, which didn’t hurt his instinct towards compliance. The pain was mostly gone, presumably numbed by whatever drugs the Bat had put in his system. But his head was still fuzzy from his bout of unconsciousness, as well as the rest of the events that had occurred over the last two days. 

Batman led him into a chamber that contained a sparse bathroom, the outfitting of which was as dark in shade as the rest of the cavern. 

“Put this on your wounds when you’re done showering,” the Bat said, gesturing towards a clear bottle of white ointment that was sitting on the counter. 

Jonathan opened his mouth, but the Bat was gone before he had a chance to speak. The door had closed behind him. Jonathan tried the handle, but it was locked. Not shocking. 

He glanced over at the shower, not particularly eager to relinquish his covering and get in. Partially because the chill of the cave air against his face clearly indicated that the world outside of the cape was not going to be as warm as inside. But also because he knew that Batman wouldn’t leave him alone anywhere, much less in his _home,_ unless there were cameras monitoring his movements. 

The third, less rational reason for his hesitation was that he knew once he took the cape off, he would not be wearing it again. There was a neatly folded stack of clothes on the counter next to the bottle of ointment, which Jonathan was clearly expected to wear. Which he _wanted_ to wear. Whatever garments had been provided were undoubtedly less demeaning than being swaddled in his enemy’s cloak. It wasn’t as if he’d torn Batman’s wings from him in victory. They’d been handed to him out of pity.

He let the cape drop, as dismissively as possible. He turned on the shower, and a hand cautiously placed under the spray demonstrated that the water was much warmer than anything Jonathan had experienced at Arkham. He couldn’t imagine the Bat taking anything but ice cold showers, so he assumed that whatever heater had been installed was for the benefit of the man’s many children.

...Which was a strange thought, and instantly killed any of the voyeuristic pleasure of using Batman’s bathroom. Jonathan sighed, stepping in under the water and silently vowing to get this over with as quickly as possible.

It was a difficult promise to keep, as the hot water felt incredible on his aching body. The lingering painkilling effect of whatever Batman had dosed him with kept his wounds from stinging at the spray. Instead, Jonathan could _feel_ it as the poison from DeSaad’s disgusting lackey was washed away from his skin. 

Eventually the sensation had faded, and the fact that he was clean was unavoidable. He stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel from the rack — black, of course. He dried himself off as expediently as possible, while still taking care not to exacerbate his wounds. 

He was wary of the ointment that had been left for him, but an experimental dab against one of the marks on his shoulder didn’t cause any discomfort at all. He sniffed it experimentally, but didn’t recognize the scent of the ingredients. Perhaps it had been derived from the same world they’d just left. Jonathan squashed down his curiosity about the unknown potential of a whole planet of possible toxin additives as he rubbed the ointment over his wounds. It was really, _really_ not worth thinking about. 

The clothes were dark in color as well, which was incredibly unsurprising. The shirt was black, a simple but clearly expensive cotton blend that was far too wide around the shoulders. The dark grey sweatpants were similarly large around the waist, but they at least had a drawstring, and the legs were long enough to reach his feet. 

Once dressed, he walked over to the door. He gave one last glance to the cape lying on the floor before knocking against the metal surface. 

It opened immediately. Batman was waiting on the other side. He was wearing a new cape now; apparently he had plenty of spares. Jonathan felt a pang of concern that the one he’d been wearing would be discarded or incinerated. It seemed like such a waste. 

“Back to Arkham?” he asked, swallowing down any inane cape-related misgivings as quickly as possible. 

“Yes,” Batman said. “I’m going to drug you again,” he added, which was unusually polite. 

“Fine,” Jonathan said. 

He waited. 

“Should I expect the forces of Apokolips to start using fear toxin?” Batman asked, unexpectedly.

“Probably,” Jonathan said after a moment’s consideration. He had thought the conversation was over. 

“Hm,” Batman said.

His frown had genuine concern in it, which was a gratifying ego boost. At least until Jonathan remembered who would be producing said fear toxin. Then Batman’s frown made him want to skewer the God of Torture with his own spine. 

“Did Bekka run into DeSaad?” Jonathan asked, since apparently they were still talking. 

“Yes,” Batman said. “He died.”

Jonathan grinned. “Really?”

“Don’t get too excited,” the Bat warned, reaching into his belt. “It won’t last very long.”

“Naturally,” Jonathan said, watching him. “But still.”

“Yes,” Batman said, and in an instant he’d pressed something against Jonathan’s mouth. He staggered as he inhaled astringent smelling chemicals, the Bat catching him as his legs lost the strength to hold him upright.

As consciousness left him for the third time that day, it occurred to Jonathan that Batman hadn’t given him the chance to thank him. Which was a bizarre thing to think, given that Jonathan had absolutely no intention of doing so. But regardless, it was the last thought in his head before his mind went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Superman/Batman takes place after As The Crow Flies, which is why Jonathan vaguely remembers having been to the Batcave before. His memory of this visit may also be a little vague, given that he's still kind of drugged when he wakes up there. But the cape? The cape he will remember forever.


End file.
